Back in the Saddle
by DeniseV
Summary: Rodney's still recovering after the events of Grace Under Pressure, but he's definitely interested in getting back in the saddle again. Slash. Possible spoilers thru GUP.


Dr. Rodney McKay sat on his bed, his back perfectly molded to the pillow up against the headboard, his laptop computer impressively balanced between his stomach and thighs, knees drawn up, and dressed in a t-shirt, sweatpants and socks. It was the first day since being rescued from the sunken puddle jumper that he hadn't been layered in clothes, doing everything he could to rid himself of that freezing sensation.

Six days had passed since that fateful day. Carson had released him after the first night and going into the second day after the tragic accident, telling him to stay warm – it had seemed an almost impossible effort for days and days – and to come back if he started feeling at all sick. A cough had developed, of course, on day three and he'd obeyed Beckett's orders to the letter in hopes of staving off a full blown cold, or worse.

That hadn't worked and here he was, post nasal drip bringing on persistent coughing, which brought subsequent pain to his chest, but mostly to his head. Being the good and accomplished hypochondriac that he was, he had convinced himself that the knocking in his head every time that he coughed had developed into an aneurysm just waiting for its opportunity to burst. Carson had assured him that wasn't the case, but seriously, what else could explain the awful pain?

Seriously.

Rodney McKay was miserable and he knew he was acting pretty miserable when neither his best friend nor his lover seemed willing to spend any significant time with him. A 'full infirmary' comment here, and a 'training exercises' one there seemed to drip easily from Carson's and John's tongues.

How nice.

Traitors.

Luckily, Rodney guessed, and if he allowed himself to be perfectly honest, quiet time was what he yearned for right now anyway. The jumper sounds, the ocean sounds, the whale sound, even the 'Carter' sounds had enveloped most of his sleep since his return, disturbing dreams and memories working in concert to inhibit the rest his body so desperately sought. He had slept well the previous night; he hoped it was a bellwether that the bad dreams were finally and truly over.

Now if he could just stop the coughing…

The door to his quarters opened and Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard walked in, a tray in hand. He whistled – something. Rodney wasn't sure what. It seemed familiar, at least he thought it did. Despite Sheppard's evident love of music, the man had not been blessed with very good pitch.

"Hey," Rodney tried, though the first effort stuck in his throat. He cleared it, which brought on a cough and then a wince as the right side of his head was pounded by a mini bongo player who had taken up residence there. He smiled at John's frown and finally verbalized, "Hey."

"Hey yourself. You really don't sound much better," Sheppard observed.

"Hm. I'm better."

"You don't sound it," was the strained retort. Rodney dismissed the comment and continued typing. "When did you see Beckett last?"

Let the interrogation begin.

"You realize making me talk just…" McKay was, naturally, interrupted by an unpleasant cough, but continued, "makes me cough more." He cleared his throat and coughed again, closing his eyes to the hammer effect the cough sent just above and behind his right ear.

"Look, I just want to make sure that you and Carson are doing what you can. This could turn to pneumonia. I think you've been through enough. Excuse me for caring!" Sheppard finished, the rise in his voice demonstrating his stress and concern, which appeared to be working in tandem to produce the resulting bad attitude.

Rodney looked at his laptop to check the time, the effort compounding his headache. It seemed he really wasn't up to working after all.

"Two hours and twelve minutes ago," he answered, looking at John affectionately, the smile true yet pained nonetheless.

The colonel cocked his head and offered an embarrassed grin.

"Oh. Sorry." He looked at the stuff on the tray and shoved things aside on the dresser near Rodney's bed, setting the bounty down. "I brought you tea. I wasn't sure how you liked it. I've never actually seen you drink tea. But Carson said it would help. There's sugar and lemon and honey. No milk. He said that's not good for you right now. I didn't know if you'd eaten…"

"John," Rodney said, trying to get Sheppard's attention.

John went on, talking over the scientist, a rare event for sure. "So I ran by the cafeteria and picked up a few things." He stopped talking as he saw Rodney staring at him worriedly. "What?"

Rodney frowned. "Sit down."

"What?" John asked.

"Sit."

"You should have some tea first."

"Then make me some…lemon? You brought lemon?"

Rodney wished he hadn't said anything. And John? He looked devastated. And sick. How could he have taken the tray with fresh cut lemons placed on it and brought it to McKay's room? The people in the mess should know better. Off course, Sheppard hadn't bothered to mention who the tray was for.

"I…uh…shit," John said. "I'm sorry."

Rodney could see how distraught John was. It was an oversight, obviously that's all that it was. A big one, but still just an oversight.

"Sit down," McKay ordered.

"Don't you want…" John started.

"With honey. Make me a cup and then sit down." All of this talking was tiring, especially with every third word catching in his throat. Not to mention, you know, the coughing.

Sheppard made McKay a cup of tea and then sat down, his leg right close to Rodney's socked foot. John handed over the mug of tea, and then proceeded to look down into his lap, the picture of gloom. Rodney pushed into John's thigh with his toes. The computer fell into his lap.

"It's okay. It's not a big deal," McKay tried to explain.

"Rodney, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"I do. You're thinking that I almost died. Actually, you weren't really 'thinking' at all. You can't be held accountable for your actions."

"Well, gee, that makes me feel so much better."

"Don't worry about it." Rodney waved his hand. "I'm here, you're here." He used both hands for emphasis when he continued, "The gang's all here. Well, except for Griffin."

"Hey, there wasn't anything…it wasn't your fault."

McKay set the mug down and winced at Sheppard's last comment. "Maybe." John squinted, frowned and glared at his sick lover. "Well, okay, probably not my fault. But I still feel guilty."

"Sounds like a personal problem to me."

"Oh, ha, ha." He coughed a little on the second 'ha'. "Where have you been?"

Despite earlier protestations, Rodney had been feeling really lousy with the recuperation from the near hypothermia, the concussion, the rotten sleep patterns, and then the cold. He had told John that he should steer clear for a while, that he didn't want to say anything in either his drugged or quite simply wretched state that would cause the colonel to cut and run from this relationship. John had said that wouldn't happen, and tried to spend time with Rodney a couple of days ago. It was at that point that he realized just how surprisingly wise Rodney McKay really was.

"Paperwork. Cataloguing ordnance. Training. Cleaning weapons. Sleeping. Working out. Occasional eating. I took a shower today…Teyla and Ronon complained, and Elizabeth made a face when I walked by." McKay smiled indulgently, having been through a version of this story once or twice before. "Oh, and I checked in on 'the game'."

"What?" Rodney yelled, followed by a violent round of coughing.

"Shit. Sorry," John apologized.

"You…" McKay hadn't yet caught his breath before he tried to speak. His face was a deep red, and a deep breath to try to fix his original deficient oxygen situation brought another serious bout of coughing.

"Just wait. I'm not going anywhere for a while. I have plenty of time to hear what you have to say. And I was kidding about the game," the colonel said, looking worried.

Rodney nodded. He reached for the mug, with both hands, as the coughing had left him a little unsteady. He sipped once, and then again. He set the cup down and then leaned back, closing his eyes.

They sat in silence for a few moments. John asked, "Better?" into the peaceful quiet.

The scientist nodded again. "Yes," he said, his voice harsh and weak from this last workout.

"Let me take your laptop," John offered. "Do you want to lie down?"

"Not really. Sitting…" Rodney cleared his throat again. "Sitting is safer."

"Yeah." John stood up.

"Where're you goin'?" McKay asked lazily.

"Nowhere. I, uh, put something together for you." Sheppard looked around the room, as though he was trying to avoid looking at McKay, but then he finally had to look back at Rodney, who was looking at him curiously.

"You did?" he asked, smiling.

"Yeah. I, um, I know we haven't been, you know, together for very long, but I wanted to do something to show you how much, well…" Rodney leaned forward, waiting for the rest.

"How much?" the physicist encouraged, seeing that Sheppard suddenly seemed stuck on pause.

"How much I love you," he added. A sweet smile and bright, sparkling eyes were looking back down at McKay now.

"Aw. That's…" More coughing. "Damn it!"

"Take it easy," John instructed. "Take a drink." The coughing eased a little. "You okay?"

Rodney rolled his eyes but otherwise didn't answer.

John frowned. "Should I get Carson?"

More eye rolling and throat clearing. "I have medicine I'll be taking in about," his computer gone and no watch – he hadn't worn one since he'd been rescued – he couldn't verify exactly, "thirty minutes. I'm hoping to sleep for most of the afternoon."

"Okay. Then I should do this and let you get to it. The sleep, I mean."

Sheppard walked to a cabinet, opened the door and pulled out his guitar. The instrument spent about half of its time in McKay's room these days. John sat at the end of Rodney's bed and started to play. And sing.

Love, love me do

You know I love you

I'll always be true

So pleeeeeeeeease

……

Ow. Rodney tried to listen without listening, as though that was possible. Anything should be possible for a genius, but he was at a distinct disadvantage, being sick and still recovering from near death and all.

Rodney sat up straighter and squinted his eyes, mostly from the pain in his ears. John sang the second refrain of the early Beatles classic, watching his fingering and the strings as he did so, and not watching McKay.

McKay, for his part, was, well, the correct word was probably shocked. Appalled worked. Aghast, too. John Sheppard could not sing. And despite where they were in their relationship, the newness of this phase, the newness and the wonder of the pleasure they gave one another, the newness of their love, of their commitment, John needed to know the truth. He certainly needed to know the truth before he polluted the air with this noise for much longer. And definitely before he got any ideas in that beautiful head of his that he should EVER sing in public, except maybe 'Happy Birthday' with a group. A very large group. Rodney worried, just a little, about what this might do to their relationship, but he also knew that it was the right thing to do.

"John," he tried to interrupt. But John Sheppard was in his own world.

Someone to love

Somebody new

Someone to love

Someone like you

John finally looked to Rodney as he sang that last line. The scientist was pale and not looking like he felt well at all. The 'singer' stopped strumming and… 'singing', and asked, "Are you okay?"

"Actually, no."

"What's wrong?"

"You…you can't sing."

"What?"

"You…you…" Rodney stopped, not sure how to say it nicely. There really was no way to cushion this news, not really. "You play the guitar. You have a Johnny Cash poster. I thought…"

"What?" John asked, the certainty of bad news that would follow that question written all over the colonel's face.

"You suck. At singing."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you sound like a dying cat." Good job at the empathy, McKay.

"I have a decent voice," Sheppard challenged.

"You don't," McKay insisted.

"I sing in tune," John defended. He at least had that going for him, even if his voice wasn't great.

"No. You don't."

"I don't?"

"No," Rodney noted sadly, not taking his eyes from John's. A truth like this had to be delivered in a forthright manner. Direct. Even if it meant the love of your life would walk away from you because of it.

"Your ears must be clogged," Sheppard said, still in denial.

"I wish," Rodney said, and then under his breath, "Boy do I wish." He saw that John had heard that. "Um, sorry."

"I…I don't sing, you know," John started in explanation. "I mean, not since Sunday school. That was a long time ago."

"You got kicked out of the church choir?" Rodney asked sympathetically.

"No. No!" Sheppard said louder, indignant. "I just lost interest. But I wanted to do something for you, to show you how I felt."

"By sounding like Bob Dylan?" Rodney asked with a grimace.

"He's a poet," John said admiringly.

"But no kind of a singer. Besides, you show me how much you care all the time," Rodney assured his lover. He waved for John to ditch the guitar and join him at the head of the bed.

"I do?" John asked, setting the guitar in its case and sitting next to Rodney's waist as he lounged in his bed. McKay scooted over to make more room.

"Yes. You brought me tea."

"With lemon," John reminded.

"That's beside the point. You show me you love me in lots of ways."

"I hope so." He leaned over to kiss Rodney's mouth. McKay leaned away from the kiss.

"No. If I get you sick, it'll be that much longer before either of us gets any."

"Good point." John kissed the sweaty forehead instead, keeping his lips there longer than necessary.

They both needed the touch.

"Okay. Okay. You have 'training exercises', or something else to do, and I have an appointment with drugs and this bed. Shoo," the scientist said, using both hands to swat the Air Force pilot off the bed.

"You're such a romantic," John said with appropriate sarcasm.

"You will find out how true that is," Rodney said as he watched John leave the room. "Nice ass," he added to himself as he headed to the bathroom. Boy did he miss that ass.

Pee, pills, sleep, and he'd be back in the saddle again, so to speak, in no time. Of course, that thought made him think of spurs and chaps and riding…John. He laughed, which devolved into coughing. He needed to get better. Fast. He took care of business, both the peeing and the pills, and wondered, as he made himself comfortable in his bed, imagining himself in spurs and chaps, John buck naked beneath him, except for maybe a nice black cowboy hat – John looked best in black - and working out how he could get spurs and chaps onto Atlantis without anybody noticing.

Giddy up!

The End.


End file.
